Archive of Our Own

Sometimes Katsuki has weird dreams about Izuku. More often than not, those dreams end up being a drop in the ocean when it comes to the sea of shit that thrashes in Katsuki's head the second he conks out.

He dreams about dying a lot. He dreams about being suffocated a lot. He dreams about being stabbed, about watching his friends die, and about being invisible. Some of his most vivid dreams are, innocuously enough, about sitting down for a final exam only to realize he'd studied for the wrong subject. No sky coffin, no bleeding out, no friends crumpled and mangled on the battlefield: just Katsuki in his itchy uniform having a silent panic attack at his desk.

When Katsuki dreams about dying, he wakes up and feels like a shell, like a vessel, like a dead man walking — so he stretches, pops his morning medications, and takes himself on a walk through the UA woods to remind his brain that he's the one in control. When Katsuki dreams about suffocating or crying until he throws up or getting stabbed, he wakes up to the sound of his own harsh breaths echoing in his ears and counts his toes until his mind is his own once more. When Katsuki dreams about forgetting to study for a test, though, he wakes up ready to blast himself to bits, trembling in his skin bag like a fucking hysteric and finding his bedsheets soaked with unholy amounts of sweat. Their moisture wicking power didn't stand a chance against Katsuki after an academic anxiety dream.

That's what Katsuki calls them: anxiety dreams. His therapist calls them nightmares, but Katsuki doesn't like the word because he thinks it gives his shitty brain too much credit. They're just dreams, where plot holes run rampant, emotions run high, and his stupid unconscious self falls for it every fucking time. Katsuki wakes up, realizes the threat ain't real and ain't shit, and then he goes about his day.

Those are the anxiety dreams, though. Not all of Katsuki's dreams are bad. A lot of them just. . .are. The synopsis for those tends to be uninspiring one-liners. Things like Katsuki goes for a hike with unrealistic amounts of stamina or Katsuki goes about his school day as normal surrounded by his loser friends.

Of course, Izuku shows up in his anxiety dreams. He shows up in Katsuki's normal dreams, too. Then, once in a blue moon, Katsuki has weird dreams about Izuku.

Today, Katsuki wakes up a minute before his alarm goes off because his internal clock kicks ass that hard. He blinks blearily at his ceiling, spreading his palms and stretching his fingers just to will the phantom sensations away, and silences his alarm as a preemptive strike.

Izuku's hair was soft in Katsuki's dream. In the here and now, Katsuki rubs his fingertips together — for contrast, for grounding, for reassurance that whatever that was didn't actually happen. Near the end of the dream, the strands slipped like silk between Katsuki's fingers thanks to the copious amount of conditioner he smothered Izuku's curls with while his childhood friend took a bath. Katsuki's ass was planted on a step stool, a perfect height boost that gave him access to Izuku's hair. First, he washed it, scrubbing his fingernails roughly through Izuku's hair until the dork let out a complaining whine, then Katsuki rinsed it, reaching into the bath with a plastic cup and tilting Izuku's head back to keep the soap out of his eyes. Izuku chattered all the while. He often did in Katsuki's dreams, background noise and babbles that Katsuki can never quite recall after his eyes creak open for the day, but this morning, Katsuki remembers one thing Izuku said: "Thanks, Kacchan."

Dream-Katsuki grunted and kept massaging luxurious conditioner into Izuku's hair. It smelled like Katsuki's own conditioner, probably because his shitty brain couldn't come up with something more interesting. When Izuku reached back, his damp palm bumping Katsuki's cheek, dream-Katsuki didn't flinch. He turned his head just enough to brush his lips across the middle of Izuku's palm. The bath water was opaque someway, somehow, so Katsuki didn't have to suffer an eyeful of Izuku's naked self. Small mercies.

It's not his first rodeo, so Katsuki knows the remedy that'll help him shake off a weird dream about Izuku: beat the nerd's door down and drag him along on his morning walk to set the record straight off the bat. Katsuki prefers to start his mornings on the right foot with Izuku these days, and Izuku never turns down a chance to flap his lips with Katsuki as his sole contrarian audience member.

Katsuki rolls out of bed, sands his hands together to banish the sensation of Izuku's well-conditioned hair once and for all, and then he goes about his day.

The dreams don't bother him. They did at first, back when he didn't understand why they happened, back when he worried he was lugging around more repressed shit than he ever thought, back when he was terrified to rock the canoe right after he and Izuku managed to start paddling in tune. Katsuki owns a cell phone, though, and that cell phone has Internet access, so it only took twenty minutes of research to find a plausible explanation.

Perhaps, one article claimed, you desire to be closer with this friend. Your brain just picks one way to show intimacy and runs with it, and it might be more physical than you are in reality.

Upon reading that, Katsuki sank into his mattress with relief, practically becoming one with the fibers. He mentioned it at his next therapy session, made sure Dr. Ogawa didn't think it was a quack theory, and tucked the knowledge securely into the back of his mind.

Weird dreams about Izuku didn't mean he wanted to do weird shit with Izuku. Weird dreams about Izuku just meant that Katsuki wanted to be closer with him. It's embarrassing, sure, but it's nothing Katsuki can't handle.

He beats on Izuku's door relentlessly, waking everyone on the floor in all likelihood, and huffs when Izuku rips his door open with one leg still tangled in his top sheet. His hair is pointing in no fewer than ten directions. There's some crusty drool on the side of his mouth. His face is puffy from sleep, eyes all scrunched up like he can't stand the fluorescent in the hallway, and he looks like he's not long for this world.

"Get your lazy ass dressed," Katsuki snaps when Izuku gurgles something that may or may not be a "morning, Kacchan." "We're going for a walk."

Izuku groans, sounding much like a garbage disposal on the brink, and that paired with his bedraggled appearance makes all the usual pieces of Izuku slot into place in Katsuki's head.

The weird dream should be water off a duck's wings as he shoulders his way into Izuku's room to supervise him while he gets ready. Katsuki knows damn well he can't trust Izuku not to lie down again. He also knows damn well he's not gonna stick to his guns when it comes to all his grouchy refusals to make Izuku some coffee, but if he doesn't at least act resentful, Izuku will think something's up. Katsuki fucking hates it when the nerd worries.

Izuku hisses and mutters a curse when his knuckles catch his dresser the wrong way, shaking his hand ferociously like that'll soothe the sting. Unbidden, Katsuki imagines himself snatching up Izuku's hand to plant a kiss on his knuckles and say all better.

"Kacchan?" Izuku asks. He's at his bedroom door now, hand clasped on the handle, all sleepy doe eyes, fluffy hair, and wrinkled clothes. He's presentable enough for a walk, but he looks. . .cozy. Part of Katsuki wants to hide this iteration of Izuku from the world. He tries to shake himself out of whatever the fuck he's feeling while a faint line forms between Izuku's brows. "Uh, you ready?"

Right. Because usually Katsuki's the one leading the charge when it comes to morning walks. He digs his toes into the soles of his slippers to ground himself, shoves Izuku aside, and stomps all the way to the kitchen to make Izuku some coffee. Chances are, Katsuki just needs some fresh air.

;;

Dying sucks — Katsuki'll be the first and quite probably the loudest to admit that — but somehow, someway, migraines manage to be worse.

Katsuki saw this one coming. All throughout afternoon training, his head felt strangely fuzzy, uncomfortably swoopy, and eight other kinds of off. A faint tingle clacked its grimy pinprick fingernails against the base of Katsuki's skull, the sensation only worsening with each step as he trudged to the dorms at the end of a mediocre day of training. It probably didn't help that Katsuki tended to stomp harder than strictly necessary.

The incessant tingle was annoying, sure, but that's not why Katsuki was clomping around having a silent temper tantrum. More troublesome was what came after the tingle: hours upon hours of being horizontal, rendered virtually useless and bored senseless while his brain had a long, drawn-out tantrum of its own.

Recovery Girl would have his fucking head if she knew he willingly ignored a migraine aura, but what the old bat doesn't know can't hurt her. Besides, Katsuki's paying for his own transgressions as it is, holed up beneath his comforter with the migraine to end all migraines.

At least he's not alone. Izuku doesn't really need to hang around while Katsuki lies there in silence, bedridden with his pounding head, but Izuku's there anyway. Hell or high water couldn't have held him back once he spotted Katsuki clawing at the base of his skull, trying to dislodge that radiating pain that made him feel like he was rolling in a needle pit.

Months ago, they instituted an open-door policy on their dorm rooms without a word between them. Izuku always knocks before he comes into Katsuki's room, but it's a quick thing, just a rap of the knuckles to say hey, it's me, don't worry, so Katsuki gives Izuku the same treatment on the rare occasions that he feels like holing up in Izuku's space.

Admittedly, Katsuki likes his own space better. It's tidy, his All Might posters are tasteful rather than garish, and it smells neutral to Katsuki's nose. Izuku's room smells like Izuku. Every so often, that's just what the doctor ordered (if the doctor's name is Katsuki with a soul-shaking nightmare under his belt, that is), but sometimes it feels like an army of winemakers are stomping on his head like a fucking grape. That is to say, sometimes Katsuki has a shitty migraine, and his nose is no fan of unusual smells or scratchy sensations like the drag of Izuku's pilling bedsheets.

Katsuki's wrapped up in an old favorite hoodie that he's swimming in these days, still rebuilding his muscle after what felt like a lifetime of mandatory bed rest. He's hiding his face under his weighted comforter because even the bit of sunlight seeping in from outside hits him like a truck if he dares to lower his guard. The air beneath his comforter is hot, stuffy, and not all that satisfying to breathe, but it's better than what awaits Katsuki outside of this ramshackle sauna.

To make matters worse, Izuku scurries under the sheets to check on Katsuki. All he's gonna do is yap and steal Katsuki's precious reserves of oxygen, but Katsuki doesn't do anything but huff to say hi and whatever in one fell swoop. He keeps his eyes shut tight until Izuku's settled under the comforter, and then he creaks his eyes open one at a time. The grape-stomping wine-makers are still going strong at the base of Katsuki's skull; even squinting at Izuku makes his stomach lurch.

Katsuki can barely make out Izuku's face under the covers, but he doesn't need to see Izuku's face to know he's joking when he asks, "What's the status, Dynamight?"

His voice is mock-serious, clipped like they're on the scene of a collapsed building. It would be funny if Katsuki's skull weren't collapsing in on him. "In the fucking trenches," Katsuki reports morosely.

Like a radio cutting on, Izuku hisses between his teeth. "Dynamight down for the count. Backup requested."

Katsuki manages to resist the urge to groan, but only because it would probably hit like a gunshot to the head. Instead, he just says, "Shut up, Izuku."

He can practically hear Izuku's sympathetic grimace. "If it doesn't get better soon, maybe we should — "

"Shut up, Izuku," Katsuki repeats with more heat behind it this time. The last thing Katsuki needs is Recovery Girl's kid gloves or Aizawa's watchful eye raking over him until Katsuki's nothing but bone, and Izuku knows it. That's why he kept his trap shut and waved off group study invites for the sake of sitting in the dark with Katsuki. "It's just a stupid migraine."

To his own ears, Katsuki sounds like a petulant child. He's always talked like that, tacking a low grumble on to cover his soft underbelly, but he's more aware of it these days. He feels like a kid clomping around in shoes four sizes too big. He feels like throwing his hands up and saying, "Who am I fucking kidding? You all saw me die; you know I'm weak."

If Katsuki weren't squeezing his eyes shut tight to fight against the pressure between his ears, his eye would probably be twitching. The thoughts are irrational, sure, but that never seems to be enough to make them go away.

The back of Izuku's fingers brush Katsuki's forehead, like he's checking for a fever, and then he prods Katsuki's cheek scar. That shit always makes Katsuki feel. . .weird. The way he got the scar isn't a secret, but it still feels special that Izuku's the one touching it.

Something bubbles up inside of Katsuki. It slithers under his skin like a parasite until his pillow feels like an aggravated ant bed rather than a hunk of memory foam. With a huff, Katsuki tries to tell the noisy parasite to fuck off, but when that plan fails spectacularly, he turns his face to smack a stupid fucking kiss on Izuku's stupid fucking knuckles to quiet the racket. Then he goes back to burying his face in his pillow.

The utter humiliation of blushing hardly even registers. That's how bad Katsuki's head hurts. Faintly, he hears Izuku giggle like he does when he's nervous, a tiny uncontrolled sound that's half-smothered. That makes Katsuki feel weird as fuck, too, but he's got bigger fish to fry.

For example, Katsuki's eyelids are about as dead weight as his head is right now. Giving into one of his subconscious urges seems to have opened the floodgates. He breaks another one of his self-imposed rules and grumbles, "I'm gonna take a nap."

"Okay," Izuku says. He prods Katsuki's cheek again, not quite meeting scar tissue, and retreats above the covers.

Alone at last — but not too alone — Katsuki naps in the safe cocoon of his comforter with Izuku holding down the fort.

;;

Weeks later at the tail end of a heated head-to-head video game battle, Katsuki decides that only one of them will be getting the honor of leaving his room alive. Izuku's going down.

His remote creaks in his palm as his thumbs work overtime to beat Silver Age All Might to a pulp on-screen. "That was a cheap fucking shot, Izuku."

"There are no cheap shots in video games," Izuku declares serenely, like he didn't just bat Golden Age All Might off the nearest ledge with a massive hammer that trumps all. His bug eyes are glued to the screen. Katsuki has half a mind to reach over and smack the stupid remote out of his hand — no more cheap shots for Izuku's wily ass. "There's just winning and losing."

Two seconds later, Silver Age All Might sucker punches Golden Age All Might. Katsuki's character of choice sails through the air like a desiccated leaf in the wind, and no amount of jamming buttons convinces the piece of shit to flip back onto the platform. His last life disappears in a blaze of glory, red, white, and blue fireworks appearing at the bottom of the screen where Golden Age All Might fell to his tragic death. All because Izuku's a goddamn rat.

Katsuki tosses his remote to the side and gets Izuku in a headlock in a second flat. Izuku splutters, trying to wriggle out of Katsuki's grasp while he giggles like a fucking loon, and Katsuki's dismayed to realize that bubbling sensation, that looming sense of weirdweirdweird is enveloping him once more. God fucking damn it. In the midst of their tussle, Katsuki claps a hand over Izuku's mouth to silence his breathless snickers when he can't stand the sound anymore.

Menace that he is, Izuku jerks back just enough to give Katsuki's clammy palm a sloppy kiss. Katsuki tears his hand away with a grimace and scrubs it dry with the hem of his shirt. What a gross bastard.

"You fucking weirdo," Katsuki says bitterly, ramming his elbow into Izuku's shoulder to let him know who's boss.

It seems the message doesn't get through to Izuku. His chin, tipped up like a royal receiving praise, says I won loud and clear. The glint in his eye says he just made a fool of Katsuki. His stupid chest heaves while he swallows down giddy, triumphant chortles to save Katsuki's ego.

Katsuki's gonna fucking kill him.

He reaches out to grab the fucker by the throat, but instead, his hand ends up ruffling Izuku's hair. A lump forms in his throat when Izuku leans into the touch.

Katsuki props himself up on one elbow and keeps one of his fingers just close enough to toy with the ends of one of Izuku's curls. As much as he likes being on even ground with Izuku, every so often, Katsuki gets this irrepressible urge to make himself bigger, taller, and stronger than Izuku. Once upon a time, that used to be the driving force behind Katsuki's cruelest words, but now it's not so nefarious. He just likes having a bird's eye view of Izuku every now and then. He likes being the braver, sturdier one, especially when Izuku looks as soft and sweet as spun sugar like he does now.

The nerd makes him feel squishy sometimes, like one of those fidget toys Denki loves, the ones with eyes that comically pop out and a perpetual plasticky smell. Times like these leave Katsuki open and exposed, too. It's like he's undergoing surgery, splayed out on a cot and surrounded by beeping machines in one of those creepy rooms with a big window for people to stare down at his insides. Despite all, despite everything, Katsuki's anxiety goes haywire, spiking before it dives six feet under, trying to figure out how to coexist with the feeling of safety he could never shake around Izuku.

Katsuki feels himself staring. There's a little smile playing at Izuku's lips, a cheerful flush to his cheeks like there's no better way to spend his Saturday than whooping Katsuki's ass three times over. He doesn't seem to mind Katsuki skimming the ends of his hair with each tap of his finger. He doesn't make Katsuki feel stupid for taking a moment to look at Izuku's stupid face, incongruently round beneath all that scarring.

He's a good friend. Katsuki doesn't think he'll ever stop being grateful that Izuku forgave him. He's all too used to that mishmash of shame, gratitude, and pride — the tangle of feelings in his chest that he just likes to call Izuku when he gets sick of puzzling over it. Gratitude's never made Katsuki feel like leaning over and kissing Izuku right on the motherfucking mouth, though.

Why the image of kissing Izuku pops into Katsuki's head and lingers, Katsuki can't say. Maybe it's because they've started sneakily pressing kisses to each others' shoulders when they hug goodnight, both steadfastly pretending like it's nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it's just because kissing is what he's seen his parents do when their affection for each other boils over. He's only seen them kiss a few times, just calm, closed lip things that looked more like a face hug than anything else. It didn't bother Katsuki, not really, but he scrunched up his nose and griped like kids were supposed to.

Kissing Izuku doesn't sound weird at all to Katsuki. He doesn't live under a rock; he knows that's what people do when they're dating or married or more than just friends, but he and Izuku do plenty of things that other friends don't do.

They share a bed all the time. Sometimes they end up sharing a pillow if someone rolls too close in the middle of the night. Izuku likes to steal sips from Katsuki's water bottle when they're lounging around the common room, and at this point, Katsuki doesn't even bother rummaging up some complaints about it because he really, truly doesn't give a shit. After all, he's taken cast-off lollipops from Izuku's mouth when Izuku decided he was tired of the flavor. That was back when they were kids, but Katsuki thinks he'd still do it now if Izuku got himself in a lollipop-related bind. Izuku never minds Katsuki hovering just outside the stall while he showers, especially if they're in the middle of a meaningless debate and can't stand the idea of putting things on hold for even five minutes.

It doesn't mean anything weird to them. It's just how they are. Katsuki gets it, Izuku gets it, and that's all there is to it.

Things were a little less settled right after the war. Katsuki was still trying to figure out what being a good friend to Izuku looked like, and Izuku was still trying to figure out what he could get away with when it came to being close with Katsuki. Back then, Izuku would ask, "Hey, can I do something weird?" and then he'd proceed to do something not weird at all, like plop himself in Katsuki's lap or grab hold of his hand or bury his face in Katsuki's neck. At first, Katsuki grumbled shit like "it ain't weird" or "I don't give a shit, Izuku," but eventually Izuku stopped asking. Maybe he ran out of quote-unquote weird things he needed to test out.

Katsuki never bothered asking before reaching for Izuku because it never felt weird. He's buzzing in the here and now, though, like a child gearing up to tell a momentous secret, so Katsuki decides to ask to give himself a chance to calm down. "Can I do something weird?"

Right away, Izuku's face lights up like it does when Katsuki reaches out to execute their old childhood handshake. "Yeah," he tells Katsuki, bright eyes scanning Katsuki's face for a hint.

The nerd loves surprises, but Katsuki doesn't want this to be a surprise. He hunches over Izuku, stabs his nose into Izuku's plush cheek to make his intentions known, and drops a kiss on the corner of Izuku's mouth. He meant for it to be light and comforting like those kisses he saw his parents share, but instead, he kind of punches Izuku in the face with his mouth. Delivery was never Katsuki's strong suit.

It settles in his stomach like a warm sip of spiced tea when Izuku touches his cheek, a feather-light brush to start, and then he draws Katsuki's face down for another kiss, square on the mouth this time. It's softer than what Katsuki managed to give him, but nothing in his eyes says he minded Katsuki's first attempt. Izuku was always one to give Katsuki second chances.

For a few seconds, they trade chaste kisses, nothing more and nothing less. To Katsuki, it just feels like a one-of-a-kind hug. Every time Izuku's chapped lips touch his, it's like a great big squeeze. The sensation makes him almost giddy. Izuku's warm and pliant and present, maintaining a sliver of eye contact with Katsuki and dusting his fingers over Katsuki's cheek. It's nice.

As if in agreement, Izuku stamps one more kiss on Katsuki's face, getting more chin than anything thanks to his poor aim. He says, "It's not weird, Kacchan."

Katsuki resists the urge to roll his eyes, but he can't resist the temptation to lash out with a heatless, childish jeer. "You're weird."

Izuku scoffs and moves to sit up. Katsuki feels embarrassed, a little, but not really in a bad way. He feels like smiling. He feels like he's vibrating in place. He feels like Izuku's on the same wavelength as him. Katsuki used to hate that feeling — used to let it burn him up on the inside, only adding fuel to the fire that swore Izuku was better than him in every way — but he likes that it's a familiar feeling these days. He likes being on the same page as Izuku, being equals and looking each other square in the eye.

Izuku's so special to him that kissing just makes sense. Of course Katsuki would have a special way of showing Izuku affection that he doesn't really want to do with anyone else. He hugs his idiot squad, and Denki's talked him into cuddling here and there (usually via boatloads of whining until Katsuki's sick of the sound of his voice), but this is something that can be just Izuku's. Katsuki likes the idea of giving him something special, keeping a reserved sign for Izuku. That's something that can't be tampered with. It's evidence. It's something Izuku can look at anytime he wants reassurance that he's special to Katsuki.

Warm from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair, Katsuki lays a nice, hard noogie on Izuku's head. Izuku makes a complaining sound, but he doesn't try to escape Katsuki's forceful affection.

Once again, Katsuki thinks Izuku's a good friend. Maybe Katsuki should act like a good friend, too.

"You wanna watch your stupid nerd movie?" he offers. Katsuki's been putting it off because watching movies with Izuku means pausing every thirty seconds to let the nerd ramble. Watching movies with Izuku means four hours of Katsuki's life, minimum.

Izuku lights up like a Christmas tree. Katsuki rolls his eyes, but he lets the nerd tell him a hundred and one facts he already knows in the ten minutes it takes for Katsuki to figure out how to rent the film. There are far worse ways to spend four hours.

;;

Even if he feels kind of stupid about it, Katsuki thinks about the kiss a lot. Actually, correction: he thinks about the kisses a lot. Izuku kisses him goodnight, kisses him hello, kisses Katsuki on his cheeks or his shoulder or his mouth just because. Katsuki likes it.

In general, Katsuki likes routines. He likes feeling special, too, and at the end of the day, for better or for worse, he likes Izuku — just not like that. Kissing's kind of like a secret handshake, if executing a secret handshake made Katsuki feel like he's up in the mountains with his favorite camping blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Astonishingly, his brain cuts him a break for once. He doesn't ruminate on this change between him and Izuku. Maybe it's because he's learned how to look at their relationship like a living, breathing thing. Sure, he had to dig up twenty or so graves to get them there; sure, he had to tell Izuku he was sorry, even if he felt like he was gonna throw up on the pavement; and sure, Katsuki tends to have a better time when things are decided, resolved, and set in stone, but his friendship with Izuku was an exception. That's by design.

Rebuilding their connection from the ground-up was a group effort. The first iteration of Katsuki and Izuku, the squeaky kids that lived within spitting distance of each other — that pair was the best of friends, but what they have now is so much more than treks through the woods and matching Halloween costumes.

There's this thing his therapist has him practice: stepping back and taking in all the changes, good and bad, and appreciating the full, unaltered picture as an audience member rather than a participant. Dr. Ogawa likens it to a scenic viewpoint because Katsuki's mind likes to make sense of things through nature metaphors. When Katsuki pulls up to that scenic viewpoint that overlooks every bit of he and Izuku's history, he peers at what they have in the here and now, and he thinks I like what we've done with the place.

Katsuki pushes away from his desk and decides to wander downstairs. If he's thinking so much about Izuku, it probably means he wants to spend time with Izuku. One of Katsuki's self-enforced rules: if he wants to spend time with Izuku, he either does it right then and there, or he tells the nerd they need to set aside some time later. Their relationship works better when Katsuki doesn't let shit fester.

Because Katsuki's no couch potato, he heads for the stairwell only to be assaulted by the sight of Mina and Hanta macking on each other, their gaping maws slotted together like their plans for the evening include swallowing each other whole. Katsuki pulls a face, gripes in his head, and feels. . .smug?

Yeah, smug. He and Izuku are nothing like that. They're so much better. Katsuki stabs the elevator call button with his chin held high.

Over the course of their second year, Katsuki's become more and more indulgent when it comes to his friends and their interest in having lives outside of heroics. His tunnel vision hasn't wavered in the slightest, but it's probably not a bad thing that Ochako started up an arts and crafts club so people can knit or crochet or draw and spend some time together. Sato's group baking nights are well attended, from what Katsuki's heard, and the musicians in Class A meet up every so often for a nice, long jam session. Even if he'd never say it out loud, Katsuki's so relieved they got to go back to being kids, that shit nearly buckles his knees.

They're forever changed, of course. They're forever not-really kids, and too many of them have the scars to prove it. At least they could play pretend with illicit sleepovers, silly jokes, and stupid clubs for hobbyists.

Downstairs in the common space, Katsuki's body and mind acquire a target before he's even aware he's moving towards Izuku. The nerd's studying at one of the tables, hunched over his laptop, and his posture pisses Katsuki the fuck off. He whacks Izuku on the back of the neck and barks, "Sit up straight before you get stuck that way, dumbass."

At once, Izuku's spine goes ramrod straight, but his shoulders slump once more once he realizes it's just Katsuki. He blusters out a sigh and massages the back of his likely aching neck. What an idiot. "Hi, Kacchan."

Curious to know what Izuku's working on, Katsuki looms over his shoulder and leans in until he can read Izuku's screen. To his dismay, he has to lean pretty damn close. His eyesight is getting worse as the days go by, but Katsuki's pride won't let him mention it to his mom just yet. He doesn't want glasses. He doesn't want to look like a fucking geek. He doesn't want to juggle another medical ailment, even one as harmless as worsening eyesight. He's sick to death of doctors' offices and clinics and people in white coats as it is.

They're pretty much pressed cheek to cheek by the time Katsuki's eyes manage to catch a few scraps of the text splashed across Izuku's screen. He grits his teeth when the words just swim before his eyes, mocking him. Sometimes his medications make it hard to focus, but sometimes Katsuki's brain is just too frazzled, too full of memories and unspent energy to read words and let them make sense. Today's one of those days. He was fighting for his life trying to get his math homework done upstairs before he hosts a group study session for his loser friends this afternoon.

Just thinking about his math homework makes Katsuki feel sour. He's faintly aware of the warmth emanating off of Izuku's cheek and leans into it to drive the bitterness away. It's nothing they haven't done before, closeness for closeness' sake, but Katsuki's pleasantly surprised when Izuku turns and touches his lips to the corner of Katsuki's mouth. It's a little clumsy. It's says something like hi, I'm glad to see you, as if they weren't in the same classes all day long, as if they didn't pump weights side by side in the gym an hour or so ago, like they didn't walk back to the dorms together, shoulder-to-shoulder, bickering over the most recent hero billboard chart.

Katsuki's chest flutters in response to the special attention. Some of their friends are in the living room and some are in the kitchen, but no one's paying them any mind in this corner of the room. Because he can, Katsuki arches his neck just enough to brush his lips against Izuku's to say hi, stupid, I'm glad to see you, too, before he seals their cheeks together again. "What's this?"

For a few heart-thumping seconds, Katsuki feels too big for his own skin. Luckily, Izuku seems happy to babble about the essay he's working on until Katsuki stops feeling excited over fucking nothing.

Eventually, Katsuki cuts into Izuku's endless monologue to ask, "Is this the essay for history?"

It seems to take Izuku's brain a moment to depart from his intentions to carry on ranting and raving about the weirdness that is Quirk biology. "Uh, yeah."

Katsuki scowls at the screen. "The one about the second world war?"

"Uh-huh."

"So why are you researching advancements in adaptive support devices for Quirks?" drawls Katsuki, bumping their skulls together to silently call Izuku an idiot.

An awkward chuckle bubbles out of Izuku. "I guess I got a little off track," he says diplomatically.

Katsuki scoffs, unsticks their cheeks, and yanks out the chair next to Izuku. He snatches Izuku's laptop. "Let me read it," he offers, but it comes out more like a threat. That's fine; Izuku knows how to read between Katsuki's lines. "I'll mark the shit that's out of place."

Every word on the screen takes him twice as long as usual to parse, like he's squinting through a snowstorm, but he's gotta make himself useful somehow. This'll give his foggy brain a little break from math. Besides, his eyes will get with the program eventually. Probably. Katsuki's no stranger to powering through.

Izuku tucks one knee to his chest and smashes his cheek against his kneecap, head turned to watch Katsuki sort through Izuku's convoluted essay. With a small smile tugging at his mouth, Izuku mumbles, "Thanks, Kacchan."

Glaring at that smile out of the corner of his eye, Katsuki sucks his teeth instead of saying "no problem" like a well-adjusted human being. One of his most shameful truths: thank-yous from Izuku always feel like a slap to the face no matter how he tries to rewire his brain. It's just. . .Izuku doesn't need to thank him, not for this. Not for anything.

Katsuki swallows the indignation and marks up the essay. Izuku needs someone to fix this shitshow, and Katsuki's the only man for the job. No one knows how to connect the dots between Izuku's sprawling thoughts like Katsuki does. That's one truth Katsuki wears like a badge of honor.

;;

Bad dreams pretty much come with the territory of being a child soldier, Katsuki's learned, but he could really do without the hyper-realistic ones set in the classroom. Seconds ago, Katsuki could swear his hands were trembling, clammy and stuffed in his pockets as he tried to bullshit his way through a presentation he hadn't prepared for with twenty sets of eyes on him plus his frowning parents, for whatever fucking reason.

It didn't take long for Katsuki to startle awake as his panic reached a fever pitch and realize it was yet another shitty dream.

Slick all over with sweat, Katsuki hazily notes that's his third bad dream of the night. The first was one of those gut-wrenching ones where Aizawa screams his throat bloody because kids under his care are dropping like flies. Katsuki shook himself out of that one before the terror could sink its claws in properly. He took some deep breaths and returned to sleep only for his brain to tack on a sequel to that shitty dream. Then it was Katsuki's turn to drop like a fly. It was Katsuki's turn to wake up in the middle of the battlefield, paralyzed from his neck down and unable to do anything but lie there in agony with flashes of green in his peripheral vision.

He thought about trudging to Izuku's room after that dream, but Katsuki couldn't work up the energy. Instead, he fumbled his phone off his nightstand and checked Izuku's location. Surprise, surprise: Izuku was less than fifty feet from Katsuki. That helped a little.

Twice is coincidence, but three times is a pattern. Katsuki cuts his losses and decides to give up on sleep for the evening. When he squints at his alarm clock, his knotted muscles panging as he cranes his neck, he finds it's just past three in the morning.

Katsuki sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair like that'll get rid of the itchy feeling sweat always leaves behind on his scalp. Three in the morning, and Katsuki's wired. Great. Not like his sanity depends on his militant sleep schedule or anything.

The last time this happened, Katsuki thundered downstairs to make himself some calming tea. Shinsou's stupid self was curled up in an armchair with the light from his phone screen beaming into his eyes, almost blinding Katsuki even from where he stood across the room. He double-took Katsuki, flicked him off, and went back to scrolling in silence.

Katsuki relaxed as he stomped past Shinsou's crumpled frame with nary a sideways glance from his pest of a classmate. As a reward for his silence, Katsuki made the sorry bastard a cup of tea and set it at Shinsou's elbow with a loud clank a few minutes later. Then he scuttled back to his dorm room to drink his chamomile tea in peace.

Tonight, Katsuki makes his way down the stairs just to hear someone blaring those ridiculous ultra-short videos in the living room. All of a sudden, Katsuki decides he's not feeling like tea right now (read: he doesn't want Shinsou to get a big head about Katsuki being "nice," or whatever the fuck), so he does an about-face and climbs the stairs back to Izuku's floor. He raps his knuckles on Izuku's door as a courtesy and lets himself in.

The last thing he's expecting to see is Izuku's empty bed.

Katsuki's heart leaps into his throat. He scans the room. The balcony door isn't open, nor are the windows. Izuku's phone is missing from where he usually leaves it to charge on his nightstand. Katsuki stalks to Izuku's bed and presses his hand to the mussed sheets, but he can't tell if they're warm or not. His palms are too fucking sweaty anyway.

Katsuki blows out a breath and mentally snags his panic by the back of the neck like it's an unruly kitten. Izuku could be in anyone's room. Sometimes he sleeps over with other friends if he overhears someone having a nightmare. Sometimes he takes a shower in the middle of the night when he can't sleep. Katsuki knows that — knows Izuku like the back of his hand — but his breaths still come shallow.

Right away, Katsuki knows he's not gonna calm down until he lays eyes on Izuku and confirms he's safe. There's an informal protocol for moments like these, one that basically boils down to try calling Izuku before you blow the hinges off everyone's doors. With his nails biting into his palm, Katsuki tugs his phone out of his pocket and dials Izuku.

Izuku picks up in two rings. "Hey, Kacchan, I was just looking for you."

Katsuki's outrageously relieved. So relieved, actually, that his knees kind of want to buckle. Maybe that's just the adrenaline crash after a bad dream. "The fuck are you at?" Katsuki demands to know. "I'm in your room."

Izuku's voice is almost fond when he responds. "I checked your room, too. I'm in the kitchen. I saw Kacchan's bed was empty, so I figured you were up and wanted your gross tea."

Katsuki hangs up instead of defending the honor of his favorite nighttime tea. As promised, Izuku's in the kitchen, and as expected, Katsuki's worry dissipates the second he gets eyes on Izuku.

Katsuki curls his arm around Izuku's shoulders and hugs the nerd close. It's stupid. He didn't even have a dream about losing Izuku tonight, but he feels. . .clingy. He wishes his t-shirt were big enough for two.

While the electric kettle burbles, Katsuki strokes the seam that lay across Izuku's shoulder and thinks about everything Izuku is to him. He'd be dead ten times over without this little rat.

Izuku nudges him. "Kacchan?"

When Katsuki peels his cheek away from Izuku's hair, sticky thanks to Katsuki's uncanny ability to sweat up a storm over nothing at all, Izuku rocks up on his tiptoes and gives Katsuki a light kiss. It feels nice, like the perfect way to satiate that being inside of Katsuki that demands he cling and cling and unzip Izuku's chest to climb in and make himself at home, so Katsuki kisses back.

They're bathed in yellowish light from one of the kitchen appliances. Katsuki hears more than he sees Izuku's brow dip before he asks, "You okay?"

Katsuki just shrugs. He had some shitty dreams, but they aren't really worth talking about. It's nothing new, nothing that needs to weigh heavy on Izuku's mind. Their lips brush again almost incidentally as Katsuki taps their foreheads together. He likes that Izuku leans into it instead of pulling away. He likes that Izuku seems content to just stand there with their lips touching, neither of them doing all that much about it.

They trade warm, fairy-light kisses until the kettle ticks to declare the water good and boiled. At the tick, Katsuki decides he's done with that version of affection and hides his face in Izuku's shoulder.

"The kettle's done," Izuku says softly.

Katsuki'll get right on that once he's found the strength of mind to tear himself from Izuku's comforting, familiar embrace. "I know."

Izuku rubs a circle into Katsuki's back. "You sure you're okay, Kacchan?"

Katsuki huffs. So what if he's sinking into affection like he's starved for it, and so what if that usually indicates it's one of Katsukis capital-B bad nights? Tonight, it's just because he feels safe with Izuku. He can't believe the nerd was gonna make him some tea. That's, like, something his mom or dad would do for him. It's something family does. He likes that Izuku wanted to do it for him so fucking much, he wants to deck him. "'M fucking fine, dork."

It's true, too. Katsuki is fine. If Izuku's around, if Izuku's close, Katsuki's fine.

;;

"Kacchan?" Izuku prompts one day smack in the middle of a shitty heat wave.

Katsuki ain't feeling charitable today, so he's growling like a cornered jungle cat when he snaps, "What, nerd?"

It's hot as fucking balls. Katsuki would rather die than cuddle right now, so Izuku's been sentenced to the far end of Katsuki's bed while Katsuki himself soaks up faint breezes from his bedside fan. Every time that slightly colder than room temperature air kisses Katsuki's face, he feels like he won the lottery.

Things are moving along at school. Word is, Katsuki's going to be cleared for full action soon, and he's looking forward to the next round of internships. He's sick of being a desk jockey at Best Jeanist's agency. He's sick of being stuck on the sidelines while the befuddled but admittedly competent doctors try to treat medical issues they've never seen before. "A medical marvel," they call Katsuki. "A miracle."

His shitty (not shitty at all, actually — several of his cream-of-the-crop doctors relocated from other corners of Japan to get Dynamight back into working order) doctors can say whatever they want. If Katsuki's such a damn miracle, why is rebuilding his muscle mass moving at a snail's pace? Why does his wondrous Quirk fizzle out on him sometimes for no reason at all? Why is he eating everyone's dust half the time in training? The bitter taste in his mouth never seems to go away.

None of his friends are assholes about it at least. If anything, they worship the ground Katsuki walks on. Katsuki either can't or won't admit how much it helps. That doesn't stop him from being moody when he's raining sweat. He should be blasting through the air and making the most of the scorching temperatures.

Izuku's notebook pages rustle as he squirms around, pinching the front of his T-shirt and tugging to pump some cooler air against his chest. Katsuki resists the urge to smirk at the nerd's discomfort and gloat over his fan that does nothing but recycle lukewarm air. "Can I ask you something?"

"Just did," Katsuki taunts.

Izuku frowns disapprovingly, but his mouth wobbles into a smile of its own accord. "Kacchan."

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki goes nose-to-plastic with his subpar fan. The blades whip round and round, spinning just as fast as they can, but Katsuki's still sweating like a motherfucker. "What, you whiny brat?"

Pages crinkle and crackle as Izuku fidgets some more. "You know how we kiss sometimes?"

Katsuki's nose wrinkles. Calling what they do 'kissing' makes it sound like it's one of those kisses, and it just ain't. There isn't a better word for it, though, so Katsuki just grudgingly says, "Yeah."

"I was looking some stuff up about it," Izuku says, every other syllable dulled by the whoosh of Katsuki's fan. "Um, about the way we kiss, I mean."

Katsuki grunts.

His one comfort is that Izuku sounds like he regrets starting the conversation just about as much as Katsuki regrets participating in it. "Well, it's something people usually do when they, you know, like each other, but sometimes it's something people do as friends. Or as family. Like, for comfort, or just for being close or, you know, showing that you care about someone."

"What's your point?" demands Katsuki. One glance over his shoulder tells Katsuki that Izuku's bug eyes are big, bright, and excessively innocent. Not buying the act, Katsuki side-eyes the notebook in Izuku's lap. Whatever the hell's in there, he wants nothing to do with it. Katsuki shudders to think of all the Wikipedia articles and mushy forum posts Izuku combed through to fill the spread pages, and those are just the ones Katsuki can see.

Izuku shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. "I was just wondering what's going through Kacchan's head when we do that."

Ugh. Of course Katsuki saw the Feelings Talk coming from a mile away, but that doesn't mean he's gonna fall in line. Katsuki wishes he didn't have to do these, and more than that, he wishes that Izuku didn't seem to need them every few weeks like clockwork. He gives Izuku the short answer. "Nothing, really."

"Nothing at all?" Izuku prods.

"Nothing weird," Katsuki says defensively, but right away, he knows that won't be enough to satiate Izuku's curiosity. He fidgets with his headband, feeling all for the world like there are a dozen snipers aiming at his forehead. "Why are you asking me this shit?"

"I just want to know what Kacchan's thinking," says Izuku. His pencil, covered from tip to eraser in gnaw marks, hovers above the page like he has intentions to take notes on this conversation.

Just to soothe the grumbling grouch that lives inside of Katsuki, the one who can't stand touchy-feely shit like this, Katsuki sighs long and loud and showy. He's so hot, he kind of feels like stuffing his head in the bladed chamber of this fan. A move like that would be dual purpose: he'd escape this conversation and the oppressive heat in one go.

Then again, Katsuki never really wants to escape conversations with Izuku these days. He drags his feet, sure, tugging at the leash like a stubborn dog, but he always falls in line eventually.

Impatient as ever, Izuku sticks out his balmy toes to tickle the arches of Katsuki's feet. "Kacchan?"

Katsuki shoots daggers at Izuku to say I'm fucking trying, asshole, and scrubs a hand over his face. He's sticky. He's fucking nervous. He's about to say something out loud that he hasn't uttered since he was four years old, probably, and it's just — fucking scary. A part of him still thinks it'd be valid if Izuku laughed in his face.

"I'm just thinking that you're my best friend," Katsuki says finally. The words seem to scrape up his throat on their way out. "That's all."

Katsuki eyes Izuku warily as he knee walks across the mattress to bring them face to face. If Katsuki were a porcupine, his quills would be good and puffed. Unfortunately, he's just Katsuki, and it takes more than a ferocious scowl to cow someone as lionhearted and charitable as Izuku.

The idiot's teary, god damn it, which means Katsuki feels teary, too. Either that, or he's sweating from his eyes. It's hot enough for that excuse to fly, probably.

Izuku grabs Katsuki's face in his sweltering paws and kisses Katsuki. Even if it's way too hot, Katsuki lets the nerd linger and sneak a few more chaste kisses just to say I'm here, and I mean that shit and you're my best fucking friend, I swear, five-to-fifteen year-old me was just a stupid entitled shithead.

Because he's Katsuki's worst fucking nightmare, Izuku just giggles when Katsuki thrusts his chin up to stamp an alright, quit it kiss on Izuku's bottom lip. Katsuki's eye twitches, but he kisses the dork one last time, hard enough that his teeth nick the inside of his own lip. If he could snatch those giggles and rip them to shreds, he would.

"Gimme some fuckin' space," complains Katsuki, "before I burn alive."

Izuku rewards him with an exaggerated eye roll. "Okay, Kacchan."

Katsuki bats at Izuku's back as he scurries back to his side of the bed and snaps up his notebook. "Oi, what's with the attitude?"

"Every time we talk about our feelings, you get all mean," Izuku says good-naturedly, hardly paying Katsuki any mind as he leafs through his notebook at light speed.

"Every time we talk about our feelings, you cry like a fucking baby," Katsuki shoots back. A beat later, he realizes that saying as much only proved Izuku's point. Damn it.

Izuku's impression of the sun is spot-on as he chirps, "Whatever, Kacchan," and hunches over his notebook to scrawl something in the margins.